You've Gotta Know When to Holt 'Em
by RSteele82
Summary: (AU Series) "Who would have thought a nice little garlic farmer like Lester Shane would take the lid off Pandora's box?" Who, indeed? In honor of my one millionth word written for Remington Steele, a piece from one of my top five favorite episodes: Premium Steele.
1. Prologue

_**Prologue**_

 _1,000,000 words written for Remington Steele._

 _Because Premium Steele has always been one of my top five favorite episodes of Remington Steele, I wanted_ _this_ _story to mark this milestone. From the day I wrote my first RS fanfiction, I promised myself once I hit the one millionth word mark, I'd wrap up my stint writing fanfic and return to my book. It seems these characters we love have a different idea as I have at least another dozen stories writing themselves in my head._

 _And that, it turns out, is alright by me._

 _Thank you to everyone that has been so supportive throughout this journey, have offered up stellar story ideas, and keeps these characters alive in their hearts. It amazes me less that I've written a million words, than it does so many people have read every one of them. That's where the true commitment lays!_

 _Thank you… Thank you… Thank you for your time._

 _ **~RSteele82**_


	2. Chapter 1: The VCR

_**The Alternative Universe Series**_ _ **  
**_

 _" **Who would have thought a nice little garlic farmer like Lester Shane would take the lid off Pandora's box?" Who, indeed? This episode has always been… magical… in my eyes, yet it always felt like so much was left unsaid, undone, in that room at the Downtowner Motel and in the final scene of the episode. But, here in the AU, this is the season of Mr. and Mrs. Steele, and all that unsaid becomes said, all the undone becomes the done. Enjoy!**_

 _ **Toss the Twilight Zone experience of Season 5 into the proverbial trash can. These stories pick up after Steele of Approval. While Approval still exists, more importantly these stories look at season 4 as most of the viewers saw it - Laura and Remington had crossed that line, imbuing that Season with the "Mr & Mrs Steele" feeling that most experienced. **_

_**To get the most out of my stories, I recommend reading them in the following order:**_

 **Steele Forsaken (Part 1 of 3 in the A Holt New Beginning Series)  
Steele Mending (Part 2 of 3 in the A Holt New Beginning Series)  
A Holt New Beginning (Part 3 of 3 in the A Holt New Beginning Series; Takes place during and after Steele Searching)  
Holt the Presses (Takes place during and after Steele Blushing)  
The Holt Truth (Takes place during and after Forged Steele)  
You've Gotta Know When to Holt 'Em (Takes place during Premium Steele)**

 _ **As usual, I do not own the characters. I simply borrow them.**_

* * *

Chapter 1: The VCR

Remington stood at the counter of the electronics store, thrumming his fingers on the counter a bit impatiently, glancing at his watch every fifteen seconds or so. It was one thing to show up at the office at ten… or ten-thirty… After all, Laura had long ago seemingly accepted he was simply not a morning person and tolerated his mid-morning appearances at the office with good grace, at least most days. But if the blasted salesperson didn't hurry up about it, it would be closer to eleven by the time he strolled through the Agency doors and that would present a myriad of problems. A greater likelihood of running into his Miss Holt before he could make it to his office, to start. Her ears would be pricked up, listening for his greeting to Mildred, then she'd step from her office and turn that oh-so-sexy disapproving look upon him. Blood stirring as it might be, it wasn't precisely his goal to start out on her bad side this morning. Then, of course, he'd be unable to slip his new purchase into his office before it could be seen. Any plans for spending the day with the little beauty would go, pffffttt, right out the window.

No, the little twit delaying him needed to get a move on, that's all there was to it. He and Monroe were going to have to have a little discussion regarding prompt, efficient service in the stores.

Another glance at his watch accompanied by more vigorous thrumming of his fingers, and he allowed that making the purchase on a workday before he was due in the office mightn't have been the wisest of ideas, but he'd been unable to resist. Last evening, after a stop by the market for some essentials, he'd been lured into the nearby video store to peruse its offerings. He'd been toying with the idea of the purchase he was making today for nearly two months now, when the video store had opened its doors. The idea of having some of his favorite movies right at his fingertips to watch whenever he wished instead of at the whim-and-will of often tasteless programming directors at the local television stations, was tempting to say the least. Still he'd resisted the urge. While Laura humored his love of the greats, an evening watching the telly was not exactly the mark of romance. His films had provided a great distraction these last years as he sat at home alone on most weekday evenings, to his unending irritation. But these days? An evening without his Miss Holt next to his side was a rare evening, indeed, weekday or not. Oh, he'd still go to bed on his own five of seven nights a week, but the evenings were for them: dining, dancing, romance… kissing, flirting, touching… making love. And he'd be damned if he'd give up a minute of any of those parts of their evening even to enjoy one of the classic.

Still, as he'd toured the video store's offerings last evening, the devil on his shoulder had begun its irritating insistence that he should indulge himself. After all, there were all those hours in the evening after Laura left to contend with on his own. _None but the Lonely, Gaslight, The Lady Vanishes, The Picture of Dorian Gray, The African Queen._ _Good God_ , he thought to himself, picking up a plastic clamshell case, _His Girl Friday._ A grin lifted his lips. The movie had always reminded him of he and Laura. Yet, he'd persevered, setting the movie down and turning to leave, patting himself on the back for once again resisting the lure of temptation.

Until his eyes had lit upon the store's featured new release: _Gone with the Wind._ Laura's favorite movie of all time. A memory from time spent in a hayloft a year prior immediately settled over him.

* * *

" _ **Oh, I do hope this has something to do with**_ _ **Gone With The Wind**_ _ **. Now that's one movie I do know about. I've seen it a dozen times."**_

* * *

Her excitement, the sparkle in her eyes, the dulcet tones of her voice as she espoused her love of the movie, the dimples that had flashed. _Ah, enough to set a man's blood on fire,_ he grinned to himself now.

If that mere memory weren't enough to guarantee the sale, the fantasy which traipsed through his creative mind was: Laura snuggled up in his arms on his bed, lost in the romance of the Antebellum era, Rhett and Scarlett, while his lips savored the taste of her neck, her sultry hum of pleasure resonating in his ears. His blood had darned near boiled at the thought. It was the perfect merging of their interests: her beloved movie and his beloved Miss Holt in his arms where she belonged.

He'd left the video store with the movie in hand, a head full of daydreams, and both had brought him here this morning.

"You're good to go, Mr. Steele," the clerk told him, interrupting his reverie. "Mr. Henderson said to assure you all will be taken care of as directed." Remington had harrumphed at the clerk, making his displeasure at the wait be known.

"Tell him I said to be sure that it is. Good day." Lifting the box holding the VCR in his arms, he hightailed it to the waiting limo.

"A big, juicy steak for lunch is on me, Fred, if you have me to the office by ten-twenty," he told the trusted chauffer before he'd even closed the car door behind him.

"Not a problem, Mr. Steele," Fred assured him, then promptly stomped on the accelerator, propelling Remington back against his seat.


	3. Chapter 2: Foiled

Chapter 2: Foiled

True to his word, Fred had Remington at the Agency by ten-nineteen and had earned himself a steak lunch as a reward for his efforts. On the eleventh floor of Century Towers, Remington peered through the doors of the Agency to see if the inimitable Miss Holt was safely ensconced in her offices, and seeing the coast was clear, hotfooted it to his office, box under arm. Mildred's lips pursed and brows furrowed as she viewed this spectacle from the breakroom, wondering what he was up to _this time._ He returned in a casual stroll into the reception, leaning a hip against Mildred's desk, where she'd returned with her cup of tea.

"Good morning, darlin'," he told her, flashing her one of those charming smiles of his as he leaned down to buss her on the cheek.

"Uh-huh. Don't give me that. What are you up to, Boss?" she demanded to know.

"Why, Mildred, you wound me," he answered, laying his hand on his chest to emphasize the point. "Whatever makes you think I'm up to something?"

"The mad dash to your office I just witnessed, comes to mind," she told him drily.

"Remington Steele does not _dash_ , Mildred. Walks with purpose, elegantly hastens, ambles with exuberance—"

" _Uh-uh_ ," she said with all the sarcasm in her big, ole heart, standing and leaning over her desk to wag a finger at him. "I know a dash when I see one, Boss. So, _give_."

"I give you my word, Mildred," he vowed, leaning over to buss her on the cheek again, "The only thing I'm 'up to' is a bit of reading that will require all my concentration. So, do me a favor and hold all my calls, hmmm?" She watched his retreating back with a shake of her head, then muttered to herself as his door closed.

Removing his jacket and hanging it over the back of his chair, Remington sat down at his desk and immediately popped open the flaps of the box, removing the VCR's instruction manual from within, then perching the VCR on top of the box. Propping his feet up on the edge of the desk, he began to read aloud.

"Twenty-eight functioning remote with direct keypad tuning." He paused to examine the machine giving it a little stroke. "Oh, my little beauty," he sighed before returning his attention to the manual. "Built-in MTS…" The phone buzzed. Eyes never leaving the manual, he snatched up the receiver. " _No interruptions_ , Mildred," he growled.

"But Chief –"

"I need to concentrate, thank you," he reminded her, then placed handset back on base, disconnecting the call. "Built in MTS," he repeated. He'd barely said the words when his office door opened and Mildred walked briskly into the room. He flipped the manual closed, irritably.

"Sorry, Boss, but I think you ought to-" Her thought forgotten, her eyes landed on the VCR. "Oh. What's that?" she asked with open curiosity. His eyes followed hers, widening slightly. _Caught._

"Investigative tool, Mildred," he prevaricated quickly, giving her a wink and a flip of his hand. "Could break a case someday." Opening the manual again, he returned his attention to it.

"There's a gentleman outside who's really upset-"

"Well, Miss Holt is expert at dealing with distressed gentlemen," he suggested, trying to hustle her off with a wave of his hand and a smile, his attention never leaving the papers before him.

"She's finishing a security contract. Besides, he wants to see _you_ ," she persisted.

"Oh, please, Mildred," he said testily, gesturing irritably with a hand and frowning. "Look, I'm right in the middle of-"

"I need your signature on these," Laura announced as she entered his office through their adjoined doors.

"Ah. Glad you're here, Laura," he replied, eyes flicking to and away from the VCR, hoping she wouldn't notice it then proceeded to foil himself when he returned his attention to the manual and tried to brush the potential client off on her. "We have a client outside, okay?" Mildred departed the office, closing the door behind her, as Laura's eyes fell on the entertainment equipment.

"I _sincerely_ hope agency funds didn't pay for this," she told him, brows raised, tapping a finger on the machine.

"Excellent investment," he punted. "We get an immediate ten percent tax investment credit, then it depreciates over a period of five years." She plucked a smaller box off the top of the machine, leveling a disbelieving look upon him

" _Gone With the Wind_?" she challenged, sarcasm lacing her words, her brows rising.

"Merely to make sure the machine is functioning properly, that's all," he insisted, standing, relieved when Mildred entered with the client. "Ah, here comes out client right now," he indicated towards the door, taking the video tape from her hand and laying it down before grabbing his jacket. She leveled him with a look letting him know the discussion was far from over, before they both turned their attention to the man who had accompanied Mildred into the room.


	4. Chapter 3: Tables Turned

Chapter 3: Tables Turned

Lester Shane seemed a nice enough fellow, Remington conceded, but his problem hardly seemed so emergent that it required a trip to the newspaper offices when a phone call would suffice. At least in his opinion, that is. And that opinion was in no way colored by a certain piece of equipment sitting on his desk back at the Agency… a piece of equipment he'd hoped to have operational that evening so he might cajole the woman next to him to come over for dinner, a movie, a little romance, a lot of…

"Mr. Steele, feel free to correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't we agree, not two weeks ago, Agency funds are not to be spent on personal pursuits?" The demanding question made him take leave of his own thoughts. He turned to face her, leaning an elbow on the door frame.

"We did," he agreed, his full attention upon her.

"You're not really going to try to convince me that… equipment you purchased is for Agency business are you?" His lips twitched, as he watched the color rise in her cheeks. _Ah, but she is lovely when that fiery of hers begins to ignite,_ he mused.

"I'd never dare to insult your intelligence by suggesting any such thing," he said agreeably.

"You wouldn't…" she sputtered. "You already did!" She emphasized the point with hand raised in air.  
"'Ten percent off the top, five-year depreciation!' Are you honestly having that much difficulty keeping track of your –"

"Merely enjoying myself a bit," he assured her, holding up a placating hand. It was one thing to tweak that temper of hers for enjoyment, quite another to set it off full tilt. "At the risk of setting off your fine temper, granted, but you're quite something to behold when piqued," he grinned at her. She rolled her eyes and shook her head at the man.

"So to clarify: Agency funds were not used," she sought to confirm.

"In violation of our accord? Of course not." He feigned insult, crossing his arms and sitting back in his seat. She wasn't buying his put upon act, instead focusing her attention on the road before her. By the time they pulled into the parking lot of the paper, he'd given up the ruse.

Inside, they were directed to a desk at the back of the circulation room, where they found a plump, garishly dressed, somewhat attractive blonde speaking on the phone.

"Rosewood Cemetery. One p.m. No flowers. Okie-dokie." Hanging up the phone she looked up at Remington and Laura, her eyes resting upon him. "Don't I know you?"

"Remington Steele," he introduced himself, sans the normal preening. "My associate, Laura Holt."

"Steele…Steele…Remington…" she mulled aloud, then suddenly sat up excitedly. "…Steele! Of course! I just did your obituary last week." Remington turned his head away trying to digest that thought, while Laura lifted eyes to ceiling at the bizarre pronouncement.

"Forgive me, Miss…" he glanced at her nameplate, "…Carter, but aren't you being a little bit hasty about that?"

"Routine," she pronounced, unaffected. "We do up obits on _prominent_ ," she emphasized the last word, while allowing her eyes to wander over him, "people just in case they suddenly… buy it. I remember you," she wagged a finger at him, "because I had one heck of a time digging up background info. I mean, why is that, anyway?" She inquired, leaning forward and plunking her chin down on fisted hand. "Come on, I can keep a secret."

"Miss Carter," Laura interrupted, "apparently you listed an obituary for a man who isn't dead. His name is Lester Shane." Remington turned his head away from the conversation again, still trying to digest the gruesome thoughts tumbling through his head. For a man who believed in kismet, the idea of his obituary just lying in wait for him to 'buy it'… he shuddered.

"Oh, he's dead, alright," Miss Carter insisted. "I got the death certificate in the mail yesterday. As a matter of fact, some joker called me up this morning, pretending to be this Shane guy," she laughed.

"Take our word for it," Laura assured her, "He's very much alive." The woman rolled her eyes at Laura, then reached into a folder and pulled out a piece of paper. Laura took the death certificate Miss Carter presented to her and looked it over. It certainly _appeared_ official. Remington took the paper and laid it on top of Miss Carter's computer monitor while reading it over. "Weil Mortuary sent you this information and asked you to place this obituary?"

"Yep."

"Could we have a copy of this, please?" Laura requested.

"I'm afraid company policy-" Miss Carter began to decline, reaching for the paper as she shook her head in the negative. Smoothly, Remington took the paper back in hand.

"Ms. Carter," he said in his most charming of voices, leaning towards her over the monitor, "inasmuch as your file on me is somewhat incomplete, what would you say to a… ," he raised his brows flirtatiously with the woman, as she drew in an unsteady breath, "…discreet trade? Dinner sometime in exchange for the death certificate?" The woman nearly drooled at the suggestion, then nodded her head eagerly. Paper in hand, Remington and Laura turned to leave.

"You have to admit, this is a bit strange," Laura noted, pointing to the paper Remington was rereading.

"Reluctantly," he agreed, grudgingly, as he watched his plans for the evening evaporate.

"Relax. Scarlet and Rhett aren't going anywhere," she told him in a disinterested tone. "Look. If it will make you any happier, we can split up, so we can resolve this case as quickly as possible."

"Excellent," he agreed half-heartedly, still lamenting the interference of this case.

"Incidentally," she began, turning her head to look fully at him, "you're not _really_ planning on taking that poor girl to dinner, are you?" He clapped a hand around her shoulders and pulled her close to his side.

"We'll make it a threesome," he told her flatly. She was unimpressed.

Laura mulled the comment at length, as they headed back to Century Towers. He'd clearly missed the point of her question. Only two weeks prior, he'd been put out with her when Preston Hayes had flirted with her while they were on a case in Iowa, and _she'd_ not made a dinner date with the man. Intellectually, she knew Remington had extended the invitation to the ditzy woman in order to secure the death certificate, but in her mind there was still a point to make.

"A threesome, huh?" she asked, slanting her eyes towards him where he sat in the passenger seat. He held up a hand at her.

"A joke, Laura, nothing more than a joke, I assure you."

"Have you, um, enjoyed threesomes previously?" He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. This conversation was edging perilously close to a discussion guaranteed to rile Laura's temper. While she claimed to want to know about his past, seldom was it well received. Not to mention he found it more than a trifle embarrassing. He'd been young, more impetuous, less discerning. Fun at the time, yes, but it was a different time and place in his life. The past, including his sexual escapades, no longer applied to the person he'd worked so hard to become these last years.

"Is there a reason you're asking?" She turned her head away from him and smirked. She hadn't missed him squirming where he sat. When she looked forward again, her face was perfectly placid.

"Curiosity," she answered, waving a hand carelessly.

"Even if I had," he began, confirming her suspicions that he'd done just that, "It would have no bearing on the here and now. I think I've made myself patently clear on this matter: I don't share, not when it comes to you. Not with anyone, _man or woman_." She raised her brows, and turned her head to give him a pointed look. She'd laid the trap and he'd walked right into it.

"And neither do I," she said with deliberateness. "Nor do I particularly enjoy standing by while you use your… charms… and offer to take another woman to dinner." He relaxed, as they were now on more familiar, more comfortable grounds: jealousy.

"I used my 'charms' only to further the course of the investigation, and the dinner invitation was hardly sincere," he argued. She shrugged her shoulders.

"It was to her. I imagine any number of her friends have been told already about how she'll be going out to dinner with the 'great Remington Steele.'" She forced herself to breathe, his wide smile telling her she stroked his vanity and it grated. Her fingers veritably itched to wipe the smile off his face. "And that's my point," she told him, pointing to his smile. "Two weeks ago you were quite… angry… with me for finding Preston Hayes's attentions flattering, if I recall. Yet here you are preening when the tables are turned and you're the focus of that attention." His smile faltered, then faded.

"Well, I couldn't very well tell the woman I was committed, now could I? It would have hardly produced the ends we needed, now would it?"

"Oh, I think we both know the minute you batted those baby blues at her, the death certificate was as good as ours. There's was no need to take it further," she pointed out. "And if you expected me to tell Preston I was committed, why couldn't you do the same with Miss Carter."

"We were working _a case_ , Laura. Do I really need to point that out?"

"As we were in Iowa," she retorted.

"At a newspaper, none the less," he continued, as if she'd not spoken. "If I'd told the woman I was committed, it would likely be all over the society papers tomorrow," he argued. "Can you imagine, 'Remington Steele and Associate—'"

"No, no," she interrupted, holding up a hand to stop him. "I never said my name had to be brought into it." She allowed herself a moment of amusing fantasy. Maybe it wouldn't be the worst thing, if it was made publicly known Remington Steele was no longer one of LA's 'most eligible bachelors'. It might, after all, sway women, such as Eloise, from calling the man seeking dates, amusement. She shook the thought off, but not her smile. For right now, at least, she needed her Mr. Steele to appear footloose-and-fancy-free, so that he _could_ employ those deadly charms of his. "I'm just saying that is new territory for both of us. I didn't handle Preston as well as I could… should have. But, you need to remember it's no easier for me to watch than you," she shrugged.

"Point taken," he conceded, acknowledging to himself he'd maybe taken it a little further than necessary with Miss Carter as a little payback for the display he'd had to stand back and watch with Hayes.

"I think there's a trip to the morgue in your future, Mr. Steele," Laura announced, after a lull in the conversation. He gave her a pained look.

"One brush with mortality on the day wasn't enough?" he questioned. She lifted her eyes upwards.

"I'll admit I found it…" she floundered as she sought the right description.

"Creepy, Miss Holt. Creepy is the word you're searching for. My obituary, sitting in a filing cabinet somewhere, just waiting for my demise." She couldn't argue his point. This was one of those rare occasions she was thankful for being 'unidentified woman', as she could feel confident her own obituary would not be found in that filing cabinet.

"Disturbing, at least," she agreed, as she pulled the Rabbit up in front of Century Towers.

"And where will you be as I am keeping company with the recently departed?" he inquired, climbing from the car.

"Keeping similar company. I'll be visiting Weil Mortuary, to find out how they could have possibly mistaken someone else for Lester," she supplied.

"Reconvene here once we're both done?" he suggested. She gave a sharp nod of her head in agreement, then drove away.


	5. Chapter 4: Foiled Again

Chapter 4: Foiled Again

Laura wanted to clobber him. While Remington had followed through with his visit to the morgue, when he'd returned, he focused his full attention on the VCR, as poor Lester had been left to his own devices, his nervous chatter driving Mildred batty. Then, to top it all off, she'd out-and-out bribed the man with a promise of the entire MGM library on videotape if he'd just _focus_ on the case at hand. Despite his quick agreement, his attention had turned to the case for a millisecond before he was back playing with wires and peeking at the manual. Then, before she knew what was happening, he'd hustled Lester out the door once he learned the man had hooked up his nephew's VCR the prior weekend.

 _Protective custody, my_ …

The thought was interrupted when Mildred buzzed on the intercom. She picked up the handset.

"Yes, Mildred."

"The Boss on one for you, Miss Holt," Mildred announced. Disconnecting the intercom, Laura punched line one on her phone.

"Is Lester safely tucked away?" she asked without preamble.

"Not quite," Remington hedged, from where he now sat in the back of the limo. "We played a little game of chicken. The VCR lost." She sat up in her chair.

" _What?_ " she drew out the word in concern. "What happened?"

"Someone apparently wishes to turn Lester's obituary into a reality. Black, four door, late model sedan, came straight as us as we were crossing the boulevard. The VCR saved our hides, you'll be glad to know," he explained. "I managed to get the first two numbers off the license plate."

"It's impossible to trace that car with only two letters from the license plate," she said while shaking her head.

"Well, next time I'll let them hit Lester, but I'll get the entire plate, okay?" he promised irritably.

"How is he?" she asked.

"He's all right. He's fine. He's fine," he answered, patting the man's arm. Lester had not particularly taken to the suggestion Remington would allow him to be hit the next time. Mollified by Remington's gesture, he settled back against the seat of the limo. "I'm going to take him to my flat for safekeeping, okay? Alright. Bye bye." He hung up the phone, without waiting for her to say goodbye.

"No offense, Steele, but… is this your neighborhood?" Lester asked, looking at the run down, industrial area they were driving through.

"Slight detour," Remington advised. "Fred, just up ahead on the right." When the car came to a stop, he picked up the crushed box and VCR contained within. "I won't be a minute," he assured Lester, then climbed out of the car, and walked into the warehouse in search of Monroe.

* * *

Laura paced the length of her office.

Why? She'd asked herself that question a dozen times now and had yet to find the answer to it. Why would anyone arrange for a bogus obituary to appear in the paper? Why would anyone produced a fake death certificate? Why would someone try to kill the garlic farmer? Why? Why? Why?

So far, she'd not come up with a single idea of merit. The two leads they had, the obituary and death certificate, had taken them nowhere. The coroner whose signature appeared on the death certificate had been out of town on the date it was issued. Weil Mortuary, from where someone had sent the death certificate to the newspaper, was no longer in business.

But there was one more lead. Only three people were aware Remington Steele investigations was investigating the false reports of Lester's demise: Miss Carter, Dr. Rossfeld and the man who had run her off at the previous Weil Mortuary building. She didn't even bother considering the ditzy Miss Carter as a suspect, which left Rossfeld and the other man. She picked up the extension in her office.

"Yes, Miss Holt?" Mildred answered her phone.

"Mildred, I need you to do a full financial background on Dr. Carl Rossfeld," Laura directed.

"You got it. Priority?"

"Yesterday."

Laura hung up the phone, then turned her attention to the mysterious activities within the Weil Mortuary building. Glancing at her watch, she noted it would be dark in about two hours.

"Well, Mr. Steele, you'll just have to pry yourself away from your new toy. We have a building to break into." Mind made up, she grabbed her purse and left the office for the day. She'd change at her loft, then go pick up Remington.

* * *

When Remington and Lester arrived at the apartment, Remington had set the other man loose on connecting the VCR to the brand new, four-foot screen television Monroe's men had set up in his bedroom. With Lester occupied, and _Gone with the Wind_ soon to be premiering, Remington retired to the kitchen to prepare dinner for the two of them. With a little luck, he rubbed his hands together in anticipation, he'd hear the opening strands of _Tara's Theme_ streaming through the flat before the meal was on the table.

There had been no such luck. Instead, meal eaten, dishes washed, and kitchen cleaned, Remington thumbed through the booklet accompanying the movie while humming the theme song himself.

"How long before Atlanta burns yet again, Lester?" he asked.

"We got a slight compatibility problem," Lester pronounced from behind the television, as the doorbell began to buzz. Remington sat booklet and movie down on top of the television to go answer the door.

"Persevere. Persevere, mate," he encouraged, as he left the room.

Swinging the front door open and peeking around the edge, he watched as Laura, clad in a black bodysuit, strolled through the door, tense and serious, holding a pair of black gloves with a flashlight held under an arm. Remington gave her the once over.

"A bit stark, don't you think?"

"It'll be getting dark in an hour," she noted. Still, with a grin, he tried to lighten her up a bit.

"Nothing gets by you, Laura," he teased. She wasn't biting.

"This case is no longer a joking matter, Mr. Steele," she responded, all business. "Our client was almost killed today. And a forged death certificate was submitted by a mortuary which doesn't exist. It's time we started getting some answers, beginning with what's going on at the former Weil Mortuary," she nodded her head, while motioning with the flashlight at him to emphasize her directive.

"Now?" he asked, clearly hoping he'd misunderstood. _Really, is it too much for a man to ask,_ he wondered silently. _A working VCR, Gone with the_ Wind _playing on the new television, and a quiet evening at home with a warm, willing and relaxed Miss Holt?_

"Hey, Steele," Lester called out. "I think I located the problem. Where's that tape of _Gone With the Wind_?" Sighing irritably, she looked towards to the bedroom. _Is it too much to ask that the man keep his mind on the case?_ she mentally groused.

"Helps keep his mind off the case, you know," he punted, watching her nod, knowing she'd not bought a bit of his tripe. "Idle hands, that sort of thing," he'd continued helplessly as he sidled past her. "I'll slip into something more appropriate." Still, never one to throw in the towel, he whistled the theme from _Gone With the Wind,_ looking hopefully at her,as he let the room to go change.

Exasperated, Laura plopped down on the couch and leaned over, resting her face in the palms of her hands. She'd be lying if she denied that insouciant spirit of his wasn't a large part of why he held her heart in the palm of his hands, whether he knew it or not, but it was also one of her biggest frustrations. Since returning home from London, he'd been more dedicated to business than he'd ever been before, as though to prove to her he was there for the long haul. Then, in the last twenty-four hours, he'd somehow morphed back into the man who'd occupied Remington Steele's office the first few weeks of their association. As enticing as that man might be, she needed her partner – her clearheaded, focused, dedicated partner – with her right now. Even after a car had nearly run down he and Lester, he didn't seem to get they'd somehow stumbled into something much darker than it had seemed at face value at initially.

"Ready, Miss Holt?" he asked behind her, shrugging on a black leather jacket. Pushing herself to her feet, she strolled in that long-legged gait of her towards the front door, while he admired the alluring twitch of her hips.

"Ready, Mr. Steele," she agreed. At least he appeared on board right now. It was the best she could hope for at the moment.


	6. Chapter 5: Explosive Turn of Events

Chapter 5: Explosive Turn of Events

The message finally hit home. Firmly, irrevocably and cruelly, had hit home. Oh, when Remington had seen Rossfeld's body in the morgue, it was more than clear someone was playing for keeps and the game had just turned serious. But as he lay in the elevator, his body atop of Lester's, ears ringing, choking on the dust and smoke that filled the hallway of his apartment and the elevator, it was then that it really sank in how far someone would go to stop Remington Steele Investigations from their pursuit.

Scrambling to his feet, he gave Lester a shake.

"Are you alright, mate?" he asked. Coughing the man held up a hand in answer.

"I think so. Go, check on the boy," Lester urged.

Remington knew before ever pressing fingers to carotid the boy was gone. His arms, legs and head were posed in unnatural angles, all of them broken. Blood trickled from a nostril, one corner of the lad's mouth. Still, checked for his pulse he did, only to find no movement beneath his fingers. Crouched down next to the boy's body, his shoulders drooped and head fell forward. He rubbed at the back of his neck with a hand, wondering how he'd even begin to break the news to Monroe. The kid had been sent over to hook up a bloody VCR, and for that he'd lost his life. The guilt set heavily and not too comfortably upon his shoulders.

Pushing to his feet, he stepped around the boy's body and into his flat, which appeared remarkably unscathed. A little touch up of paint near the door, the door frame and door replaced… He dismissed the lot of it from his mind. There were more important things to worry about than the damage the bomb had wrought on property. Picking up the phone lying on the living room credenza, he dialed the long ago memorized number for the LAPD.

"Good Evening. Remington Steele here. I need a unit sent 'round here. A young man's been killed by a bomb set up in my apartment. 316 North Rossmore Avenue, apartment 5A. Yes, we'll be waiting. Thank you." Hanging up the phone, he stroked a hand through his hair, then picked up the phone to call Monroe, only to set it back down again.

He needed to deliver the news to his old friend in person. He owed him that much, he recognized.

For a man that tried to find the positive in everything, he was struggling to find anything to cling to at all. Lester, the client was safe. There was a positive, he acknowledged with a nod of his head. Laura hadn't been here to see the boy killed right before her eyes, another positive.

 _Laura._

If his flat had been bombed to deter further investigation…

 _Oh God._

He glanced at his watch. When he'd left the office, she'd said she'd be leaving in about forty-five minutes, she had a few things to wrap up. That was twenty minutes past. Picking up the phone again, he dialed Fred.

"Fred, get back here now," he commanded without preamble. "Don't mind the lights, just get here!" Hanging up the phone, he darted out the door to the elevator, where Lester was leaning against its back wall, still shaken. Kicking some debris away from the elevator so the doors would close, Remington punched the button for the lobby.

"Shouldn't we wait here for the police," Lester managed to formulate the thought.

"We need to get you somewhere you'll be safe," he told the man, rubbing at his face, "And I need to get to Miss Holt's." Lester's eyes widened.

"You don't think anything—" Lester faltered at the thought.

"I don't know, I don't know," Remington mumbled, pushing away the image of Laura laying in her apartment hall much as the boy upstairs lay in his. "I can't imagine a similar… surprise… isn't awaiting her as well."

"If anything happens to that nice young lady because of me—"

"The fault for none of this lies on your shoulders, Lester. It belongs to whomever is responsible for the bomb. If it hadn't been you who'd become an unwitting pawn in whatever game is being played it would have been someone else," Remington told him, digging deep to find the words to comfort the man.

 _Laura._

Fred must have heard something in Remington's voice and burned some rubber, because the limo was waiting out front when the two men exited the lobby. Shoving the other man into the back of the car, Remington dove in behind him and shut the door.

"The loft Fred, and don't worry about slowing for the scenery." Their longtime chauffer asked no questions, and the limo peeled away from the curb. Remington leaned his head back, rubbing at his face with both hands. "Fred, we'll need a hotel for the evening. Nowhere Miss Holt or I would normally frequent but someplace that's still appropriate for her to take up residence for the evening." Go into hiding to regroup they might need to do, but he'd not have Laura staying among the dregs of society.

"Appears to be a dive but isn't?" Fred verified.

"Precisely," Remington agreed.

"The Downtowner Motel, sir, on Olympic and Bundy." Remington leaned forward and clapped the chauffer on the shoulder, then sitting back picked up the limo phone and dialed information.

"I need the number for the Downtowner Motel… Thank you." Disconnecting the line he dialed again. "Hello, Remington Steele here. I'll be needing two rooms for the evening, one double, one single, near one another if you don't mind… Thank you. We'll see you in thirty minutes or so." Hanging up, he returned his attention to Fred. "Fred, I'll be needing you to settle Lester into the double I've just reserved. After making sure he's safe and sound, if you wouldn't mind picking him up a few things to get him by for the evening?"

"No problem, sir." Remington fished inside his jacket and pulled out his wallet. Extracting his American Express he handed it to Fred.

"Don't worry about the costs. See to it Lester has what he needs." Remington's attention was diverted to outside of the car as the limo turned the corner and Laura's loft came into view. He shuddered with relief when he peered up at the third story, corner unit and saw it appeared to be unmarred.

 _Laura._

He jumped from the vehicle before it had come fully to a stop, and without his customary thumps on the roof sending Fred on his way, ran several steps towards the building's front doors before veering sharply to the right. If Laura's loft was rigged similar to his, it wouldn't do to go through the front door. He ran around the side of the building, then with a leap, pulled down the ladder to the fire escape. Ascending the stairway quickly he edged his way over to her kitchen window and looking through it, his pulse quickened when he saw the black canister attached to the front door, a tension cord screwed into the wall. If she arrived home and gave the door a firm pull…

His heart lodged in his throat. He reached for his wallet again, extracting his license from it. Slipping it between the upper and lower window sections, he managed to jimmy the lock loose. Sliding open the window he climbed through then, grabbing butter knife from a kitchen drawer, he raced to the front door. Prying the hold bar from the door jamb with the knife, he carefully held the wires, and removed the bomb from the door. Only seconds after he held bomb in hand, he heard the jangle of keys and the padlock outside her door scrape against it. The feeling he'd been given a reprieve from his worst dream becoming a reality made his legs turn to jelly. He stumbled backwards to sit on the back of one of her living room chairs while trying to find his equilibrium.


	7. Chapter 6: Raincheck

Chapter 6: Raincheck

Laura arrived home, blissfully unaware of what had transpired at Remington's place. They'd clocked a lot of hours on the day, and all she wanted now was a long, hot shower, followed by one of Remington's meals warmed up out of the freezer. A part of her had hoped they'd have the Shane case wrapped up today, so that she and Remington could enjoy an evening in together. But it wasn't in the cards. Instead, with him keeping watch over Lester at his place, she was left to her own devices on the evening until they spoke before bed, as they did each night.

"Hold it right there, Holt." Her head jolted upwards in surprise, then she turned and bestowed a bright, if confused, smile on Norman Maxwell.

"Norman. What are you doing here?"

"You didn't think I was going to let you run in and out of my life so fast, did you?" he asked, lifting his hands up and gracing her with a charming smile. "How was your meeting with Phil Lydon?"

"Uneventful," she nodded, confirming Maxwell's belief Lydon wouldn't be tied up in whatever it was she was investigating.

"I'm not surprised," he said with a knowing shrug. "So. What do you say to letting me try to win back your heart over a cup of coffee?"

"I'd feel a lot better about it if I didn't think you were half-serious," she answered honestly, empathy flashing in her eyes.

"It's funny. I thought after four years, I would have had you completely out of my system." Lifting his brows, he shrugged his shoulders regretfully. "Guess not." Clearly uncomfortable, Laura looked down at the ground, before reconnecting her eyes with his.

"I'm committed," she told him firmly and without apology. Inwardly, she smiled at the ease with which the words had passed her lips. They felt… right.

"Well, I guess we're destined to be… good friends. Dammit," he acknowledged unhappily.

"Afraid so," she confirmed, then returned her attention to opening the loft door.

"Uh, Laura, can a rejected suitor invite a very lovely lady out for a cup of coffee?" Her hands paused as she contemplated the invitation. She'd made herself clear, so she didn't see the harm. Releasing the lock again, she turned to him.

"Sure." The pair took several steps towards the stairwell when Laura halted. "Oh, wait a minute, I'll make you some," she offered.

"Fair enough," he agreed amiably.

They walked back to her door. Placing key in lock, she had to turn it several times for the lock to disengage. When it did, she removed the lock and slid open the door – then stood, shocked, looking at Remington where he sat perched on the back of a chair. His clothing in disarray and his face covered in soot, she held her breath as he looked up at her with desolate eyes.

"What happened to you?" Her mind clicked through the possibilities, none of them good.

"The same thing that would have happened to you if I hadn't been able to jimmy your window open." He held the bomb aloft, making sure she understood the full import of events that had transpired. He hung his head wearily.

"Is Lester okay?"

"Yes. He's okay. He's just a bit shaken up." Lifting his head, he looked her in the eyes. "There's an eighteen-year-old kid who wasn't nearly so lucky. He got blown apart in my hallway."

"Excuse me…" Maxwell stepped through the door, arms extended in question. Remington's eyes flicked to the door and back to Laura, none too pleased with the intrusion or the form it had arrived in. "Everything okay in here?"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Laura apologized. "Norman Maxwell, Remington Steele." Standing, Remington shook Maxwell's hand, his questioning, clearly unhappy gaze remaining on Laura.

"How do you do?" Maxwell asked cordially, making no attempts to hide his curiosity. "What happened to you?"

"Someone doesn't like the way we do business," Remington's eyes barely flickered upon the man before returning to Laura, "Look, Laura, we're no longer dealing with bogus death certificates and obituaries. The stakes just went up considerably." _Bloody hell, Laura, this is the last thing I need at the moment. I need… I just…_ He was still in shock from watching a kid die in front of his eyes, a kid who had died because of their investigation and he couldn't shake the image of Laura lying in her hallway… gone… from his head.

"None of this makes any sense," Laura said, moving to stand next to Remington. She wanted to reach out and pull him to her, to hold him but Maxwell's presence made that impossible.

"Uh, listen, Laura," Maxwell's voice broke into the lull, "haven't you had enough of this case? I mean, why don't you just call the police? Back off?" Remington sighed heavily, annoyed with the man, opinions and presence. That the bloke didn't know Laura at all was a bit of a salve, but not enough of one. _Why doesn't she just send him on the way?_ Laura shook her head.

"Somehow, I can't help thinking Perennial fits into this," she observed absently, her mind preoccupied with Remington.

"No, look, Laura, you're barking up the wrong tree," Maxwell insisted vehemently, placing himself between her and Remington. "I mean, Phil Lydon is my friend, for God's sakes." _Pffffttttt,_ Remington thought to himself. Glancing at his watch, a scratch at his ear unconsciously signaled his discomfort, and he moved towards the door. Laura's eyes followed him.

"Where are you going?" she asked, her concern for him evident in her voice.

"Uh, I've booked us into a motel. Olympic and Bundy." He pointed a finger at her. "Get there as soon as you can." She took a step forward.

"What about you?" she asked, believing, rightly so, he didn't need to be alone right now.

"I've just got to make one stop," he told her, then left without further conversation.

Laura stood watching the empty doorway, fingers tapping together before lifting both hands to her temples and rubbing. Maxwell watched her, taking in both her body language and the worry lining her face, straining her eyes.

"Is that him?" he asked, pointing towards the doorway, finally putting together the way Remington had kept his eyes upon her, and the way she'd automatically stepped towards the other man, as though to comfort.

"Yes, it is," she sighed, with no little regret that's he'd walked out reflected in her voice. Dropping her hands, she turned and walked towards her bedroom. Maxwell chuckled.

"I have to say, I never pictured you dating the boss," he mused. She turned and looked at him over his shoulder.

"He's not my boss, he never has been. He's my partner." Her eyes flickered towards the still empty doorway. _And he needs me now._ "I'm sorry, Norm, but I'm afraid you'll have to take a raincheck on that coffee," she told him as she continued up the stairs to her room.

"It appears that I will," he answered, trying to disguise his surprise. "Laura?" She turned to look him from where she'd opened a closet to remove her overnight bag and a garment bag. She raised her brows at him in question. "Don't you think, given what's happened, that you should call the police and let this go?" She thought about Remington and knew without a single doubt, he would be no more willing to let this go than she.

"That's not what we do," she smiled at the man. "I need to get to the hotel." It was a brazen hint that it was time for him to take his leave. He nodded slowly.

"It was good seeing you again. Don't be a stranger… friend." He smiled at her, then left, sliding the loft door closed behind him.

Unzipping both bags, she lay them on the bed. Returning to the closet, she fingered the two suits of Remington's that hung there. She loved the feeling of his belongings scattered about her loft, just as her own belongings were tucked away here and there in his apartment. When they'd begun spending weekends together after their relationship had taken that quirky turn from friend to lovers, it had seemed only logical, natural, to leave a few of their own belongings at each other's places: changes of clothes, toothbrush, brush, razor, toiletries. There was no pronouncement that this is what they were going to do, it had just happened on its own across time.

Another thing she secretly loved, but never made mention of, was his sudden penchant for dressing complementary to her. This morning when she'd stopped at the Rossmore to pick up Remington and Lester, Remington had answered the door in a white dress shirt and grey dress pants. He'd excused himself to finish dressing, leaving her to keep Lester company, and when he'd returned he'd been wearing a light blue, mutely plaid dress shirt, and navy blazer, to her navy blue blouse and grey skirt. Nipping at her lower lip now, she pulled his medium taupe suit from the closet and her own light taupe skirted suit out with it. Hanging both in the garment bag, she selected shirts for both of them, a tie for him. Both of their robes were added. Shoes went last, into the bottom of the bag. Zipping it shut she then gathered socks, undergarments, and a single pair of his pajamas for the two of them to share, placing them neatly into one zippered compartment of her overnight bag, before retrieving their toiletries from her bathroom.

Picking up both bags, she grabbed her purse on the way out the door. Sliding the door closed behind her and securing the padlock, she left to join her Mr. Steele at the hotel he'd designated.


	8. Chapter 7: Know When to Hold Them

_**A/N: This chapter contains NC-17 content. If you are uncomfortable with such subject matter or under the age of 18, please continue to Chapter 8**_

* * *

Chapter 7: Know When To Hold Them

Remington didn't arrive at the Downtowner until twelve-thirty in the morning. After he'd left Laura's, he'd hailed a cab. Prepared to direct the cabbie to Monroe's he'd remembered LAPD's finest would be at his flat in response to his call. Directing the driver to the Rossmore, he'd ended up spending the better part of three hours with the police, answering whatever questions he could. A squad car had been sent over to Laura's loft, as well, to retrieve the undetonated bomb there. Which had meant a stop by the store on his way to Monroe's to purchase a new padlock, as the police advised they'd had to use bolt cutters to remove the lock, then a drop by the loft to secure her place. It had been eleven-thirty by the time he reached Monroe's and the conversation had been anything but easy.

There was only one thing he wanted now, and she wouldn't be found in the room he currently was in. Still, he'd felt obligated to check-in on Lester, as the man was ill prepared for all that had been unleashed since the announcement of his 'death' the day before. Finding him sleeping soundly, he scribbled a note to the man, leaving it on the bed he, Remington, should have occupied, then slipped from the room. Unless Laura turned him away, he would be sleeping elsewhere that evening.

* * *

For more than three hours, Laura had waited and worried. Waited for Remington to arrive. Worried something had happened to him, that whomever had set the bomb at his place was the reason he was detained. She paced the floor of her hotel room, sat, then stood to pace some more. She'd just sat again after yet another round of pacing and was bordering on frantic, when a soft knock sounded at her door. Nerves frayed, she hovered behind it, not even daring to look out the peep hole.

"Yeah?" she answered in nearly a whisper.

"It's me," Remington replied, his voice equally as low. She quickly unlocked the door and released the chain, swinging it open for him to enter, then closing it just as quickly behind him and resecuring it. "Hi," she told him in that same soft voice.

"Hi," he greeted her likewise, crossing the room to sit on the end of the bed. "I just left Lester. He's sound asleep." She joined him on the end of the bed, nearby but not touching. He turned to look at her as silence loomed awkwardly between them, then suddenly stood.

"Where are you going?" she quickly asked. He paused to look at her, then pointed to a nearby wall.

"Just going to turn down the air conditioning," he told her. She nodded in answer.

"Sorry. I guess I'm a bit jumpy," she apologized, then, as he sat back down, stood and began to walk away.

"Sit down," he urged soothingly, patting the bed next to him, "Sit down. Come on." He waited to speak until she'd returned to her seat on the bed. "I'll tell you one thing, I'm scared." She stilled for a long moment then turned to look at him wide-eyed.

"You are?"

"Hell, yes," he confirmed, turning his head to look at her. "Murder. County officials on the take. Falsified documents. I think I'd be more concerned about myself if I weren't scared." She pondered the enormity of what they had suddenly found themselves entangled in.

"If only we knew what we were up against,"

"Yes. I mean, who would have guessed a sweet little old garlic farmer like Lester would take the lid off Pandora's box?" Laura inhaled a deep, harsh breath, clasping and unclasping hands held in her lap. Seeing her fear, Remington reached for her hand. Turning it over, he weaved their fingers together. He shifted to sit next to her, leg pressed to leg, patting her their joined hand several times, before caressing her hand with his free one. She turned to look at him, her brown eyes settling on him as he stared straight ahead.

"Thanks."

"What for?" he asked. She turned her head away, staring at the wall before them, like he.

"For saving my life this afternoon." She paused, then as she rarely did, let down her walls. "For being here." He turned to look at her, surprised, touched by her forthrightness. A smile glimmered on his lips and in his eyes. She turned to look at him fully, her eyes resting on his face. "For being you." That glimmer turned into a full smile that lit his eyes with joy.

"Laura, I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me," he told her tenderly, then shifted against on the bed, so he could wrap an arm around her and draw her close. His hand rubbed her back, then patted her hip several times. Heaving a deep sigh, she gave in to what she wanted most at the moment, and relaxed against him, her forehead pressed to his cheek, taking and giving comfort. They sat together, drawing strength from each other, for several minutes, each other's presence enough, requiring no conversation. Finally, she turned her head and pressed her lips to his jaw.

"Go, take a shower, get cleaned up." She leaned back, then reached a hand up to caress a cheek. "Everything you need is waiting in the bathroom. Your pajamas and robe are hanging on the back of the door." His eyes searched her face, trying to decipher if she intended for him to stay, or if she'd merely come prepared for what he'd need tonight and in the morning. Finding no answers, he stood, resignedly. Turning back to face her, the shock of the day, his fears… his vulnerability, clashed within strained blue eyes. "Go. I'll shower after you then we'll get some sleep… together," she assured him, answering the question he couldn't bring himself to ask. His relief was palpable. Leaning down he pressed his lips to hers, lingered there, then withdrawing, walked into the bathroom, closing the door only partway.

She waited until she heard the shower come on, then crossed the room to closet, taking out her robe and his pajama top. Picking up her blazer off the back of the desk chair, she draped her bedclothes over it then hung the blazer in the closet.

Even in his absence, the room was thick with their emotions. Another turning point arrived so soon. Retreat behind their walls, and stay in the comfortable place they'd found in the days after their return from London. Friends. Partners. Lovers. Committed. Happy. Content. Neither pressing for answers about the future, both avoiding acknowledging to themselves how in very deep they were now. Leave the walls down… it was tantamount to an admission of how much they needed one another... a huge step forward towards a future where unanswered questions wouldn't be able to be put off much longer. She blew out a soft breath, then stilled, rubbing her hands up and down her arms, searching her heart for a decision.

In the end, Remington unknowingly made the decision for them both, or so she thought. The truth was, he'd made the same realization as she while he'd stood under the spray of the shower. Be damned the questions demanding answers that would loom ever more near. Be damned giving her the upper hand, if that's what he did. Tonight, he had nothing left within him to rebuild those barriers. Seeing young Rudy die before his eyes, the images of Laura, the bomb on her door, how close they'd both come today to cashing in that final ace… he needed to lose himself in her, to breathe her scent, to feel her soft breath against him, to feel her body – alive and warm – against his.

Stepping out of the bathroom, hair damp, robe hanging open, blue eyes darkened with grief and need, he opened his arms.

"Laura."

In hearing that single word, she abandoned all thoughts of keeping her heart safe, of attempting to rebuild the barriers torn down that day. She stepped to him, threading her fingers through his hair, then palming the back of his head and drawing him close. His arms wrapped around her shoulders, holding her tight, tucking his face into the crook of her neck and breathing deep. His body shuddered and he released a deep, heaving sigh as her scent surrounded him. At feeling his reaction, her hands left his hair, and her arms wrapped around his back, pressing him more tightly to her. Minutes ticked by, Remington unaware he'd begun rocking them softly, as he sought comfort, solace… validation that she was here and safe.

When an arm left her shoulders, it was only so a hand could remove the pins from her hair, allowing it to fall free. He buried his fingers in the silken tendrils of hair. A shaky sigh passed his lips as he lifted his head, pressing his cheek to the side of her head, closing his eyes tight, then drawing her against him again. Her heart pounded, almost painfully in her chest when she realized he was as defenseless in the moment as she was. Her hands glided up his back and over his shoulders, so she could weave her fingers through his hair, drawing him out with her touch. She tilted her head back to look at him.

"Remington…" she said softly. His eyes opened to meet her gaze, and when they did, she drew in a tremulous breath at the riotous emotions dancing in their depths. He cupped her face in his palms and drew her lips to his.

"Baby…" he murmured gruffly. A shiver raced down her spine as his lips tenderly covered hers. He lingered endlessly, stroking, brushing, nourishing himself on her taste, his breath caressing her lips as he whispered alternately, 'Laura', 'Babe', and 'Baby'. So lost was she in his words, the touch of his lips, his taste, she didn't realize he'd been slowly walking them backwards until he released her to sit on the bed. Leaning against the headboard, he tugged her hand, drawing her down to sit between his legs, her back pressed to his chest. Wrapping his arms around her, he pressed his cheek to the side of her head.

"I need you, Laura," he whispered, his breath warming her ear and sending chills skittering down her spine again. The stark vulnerability lacing his words left her speechless. She could only nod in answer, as she took his hands in hers and lay them at the buttons of her shirt. She watched as his fingers released one button after another while his lips worshipped the sensitive skin of her neck, her eyes widening at the realization his hands were shaking. When the last of the buttons was released and he'd gently pulled her shirt from beneath her skirt, she leaned forward, so he could remove it. Immediately, an arm wrapped around her waist, tugging her back against him.

Remington's mouth and lips grazed along the skin of her neck, collarbone and shoulders, as a hand languidly stroked Laura's arm, side, waist and outer thigh. His touches were far from seductive. He seemed intent on memorizing every freckle, every millimeter of ivory skin. Her body hummed with a quiet contentment, as her fingers alternately sought out his hair, massaged his scalp, caressed his hand. Even when he finally drew the straps of her teddy down over her arms, one at a time, and allowed the silk and lace to pool at her waist, she knew instinctively the touches that followed would not to be arouse. Only when he gently urged her to lean forward did she truly understand what he was about: he was immersing himself fully in her presence, her essence, and in realizing that, she willing allowed herself to do the same.

For more than an hour they lost themselves to their senses. The feel of the rise and dip of a rib under trailing fingers, the taste of a shoulder, the sensitivity of a palm when a tongue drew across it, the smell of softly lingering perfume on a wrist or cologne at the nape of a neck, the feeling of warm breath against a stomach as lips blazed a slow trail across it, the sensuousness of a stubbled cheek drawn across a calf before a mouth suckled on the inside of knee, the emotions evoked when two hands found each other for fingers to tangle together before a hand wandered away to feather over a forearm, a quiet smile lifting lips when a name was quietly whispered in the night.

When sensation finally gave way to gentle ardor, neither was prepared to allow desire to overtake the deep sense of intimacy they'd created over the hour before. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Remington sat up and held a hand out to her. Laura rose from the bed to straddle his lap, taking him slowly inside her. Two bodies quaked at the feeling of hard flesh surrounded by soft, as bodies merged and emotions collided. Stilling her hips with his hands before she could begin to move, he hooked the fingers of a hand around the back of her neck and drew her lips close to his. He waited until soft brown eyes met stormy blue ones.

"You're everything to me, Miss Holt," he whispered huskily. She closed her eyes against the sudden moisture that pooled within them, and burrowing a hand in his hair, pressed her forehead to his. It wasn't the three words she craved to hear, yet their meaning, the unhidden emotion with which they'd been said, and his use of that particular name of his for her, turned her brain to mush and left her heart flopping on the bed between them. She tried to find the words which would adequately convey how much his words had meant to her, but she couldn't find them, so she offered him the only ones her emotionally laden brain could muster.

"I'm not going anywhere, Mr. Steele." She felt his body quiver under her hands and knew her words had hit their mark.

The hand on the back of her neck nudged her head downwards. His lips brushed over hers then settled more firmly over them. He tasted, nibbled, teased before he touched his tongue to her lips, seeking permission to enter. When her mouth opened to his, he slipped his tongue inside, tracing the back of her teeth with the tip, before plunging deeper to stroke and tangle with hers. A small hand glided slowly down the length of his bare back, then up his side, resting when fingers buried themselves in his chest hair. Her touch left fire in it wake and when her hips slowly began to move against him, he needed more. More access to her body. More access to her lips. More friction. More of him buried more deeply inside of her. She was feeling the pressing need as well, so when he wrapped his arms around her and rolled them to lay on their sides, bodies connected she gladly followed his lead. Slipping a leg between hers, he lifted her leg to lie over his hip.

He sighed deeply to find her completely open to him this way. A hand kneaded a breast, a thumb teased a nipple, while his lips devoured hers, even as he drove his throbbing erection deeper within the hot, wet flesh that enveloped him. After losing themselves endlessly in each other, the feeling of him moving within her, his lips feeding on hers, his fingers teasing a nipple of her breast, overwhelmed her. She moaned his name low in her throat, her leg slung over his hip tensing, as the orgasm jolted through her body, her inner muscles clamping hard down around him, tearing her name from his lips. He willed himself not to find his release just yet, to continue pump his hips, prolonging her orgasm, then, when it released its grip, driving her hard and high again.

Laura figured it out about five strokes in after her mind cleared in the wake of her first climax. Remington was determined that she find her pleasure over and over… and over again, before he'd allow himself his own. But it wasn't what she wanted. She wanted him to go over with her, so, as she was prone to doing, she turned the tables on him. Drawing her lips away from his, she bent down to nibble a path across his shoulder, smiling against his shoulder when she felt his rhythm falter for a second. Nails scraped slowly down his back, drawing a gasp from her when he thrust harder than intended in reaction to the feeling. He shook his head at her, realizing what she had in mind, and leaned down to take a puckered peak in his mouth. She cried out then clamped her jaws shut as the action pushed her perilously close to the edge. She flattened her palms against his chest, then pushed him away, with a shake of a head of her own. Her body shook as she fought the climax, clutching at his shoulder and pulling herself upwards.

"Together, Remington," she insistently whispered next to his ear, then latched her mouth on his collarbone, drawing the skin deeply into her mouth and suckling firmly on it. With a deep, masculine groan of pure pleasure, his arm tightened around her, his strokes shortening, picking up speed even as she felt him thicken slightly inside of her. With a final tug of mouth to skin, she collapsed backwards onto the bed, back arching, as she climaxed hard around him again, calling out his name. Her fingers dug into his back, felt the tremor of his body as he threw back his head and breathed her name, finding his own nirvana at her hands.

Both of them still panting, Remington sought to draw her closer to him, but again Laura took control. Carefully disengaging their bodies, she rolled to her back, then drew his head down to rest between her breasts. Exhausted and sated, even more so needing to keep her near, he readily took the comfort she was offering. The fingers of one hand toyed in his hair, while the other hand lazily stroked his back. Only once he shuddered softly against her and his breathing evened out did she speak.

"Are you okay?" she asked quietly. Unconsciously, he shook his head.

"I watched an innocent eighteen-year-old kid get blown apart in my hallway today because of something _we've_ unwittingly stumbled into." He rolled to his back and scrubbed at his face with his hands. "I've only had someone's blood on my hands once before… when Wallace was killed by the Dillon woman. It didn't sit well on my shoulders then, and it doesn't now." She turned on her side to face him and pressed a palm to his cheek.

"Their blood isn't on your hands, Mr. Steele," she correctly softly. "It's on Dillon's," she dropped her hand to his chest as she turned thoughtful, "And Lydon's, I suspect." She let out a puff of frustrated air while watching her fingers play with his chest hair.

"In both cases, they were placed in harm's way by my own actions. Recruiting Wallace for the security system." He rubbed at his mouth. "Rudy because I've been so bloody obsessed with making the evening I'd hope us to have become –"

"Us?!" she looked up surprised.

" _Gone with the Wind_ is _your_ favorite movie, is it not?" She briefly wondered how she let that one slip by her, then smiled and leaned down to press her lips to his cheek. His eyes flicked to her and he bestowed her with a lopsided smile before drawing her to lay against him and losing himself in his thoughts again.

"I can't shake it free of my head, Laura," he rested his chin on the top of her head and closed his eyes, concentrating on the feeling of her fingers as they wandered across his chest and stomach.

"What that?" she asked, her fingers stilling.

"The image of you… like Rudy… if I'd been two minutes longer or if that bloke hadn't kept you occupied..." He lifted a troubled hand to his mouth and rubbed. Laura turned, and pressed herself upwards on an elbow.

"But you _were_ there," she reminded him using that ever logical mind of hers, while raking her fingers through his hair. "You're here. I'm here. And together we'll find out who is responsible for Rudy and make sure they spend the rest of their lives behind bars." She pressed her lips to his, then gave him a bemused smile. "As for 'that bloke', he's nothing more than an old friend to whom it's been made _very_ clear I'm committed to _you._ " That earned her another lopsided grin and a waggle of a brow. Palming the back of her neck, he drew her down for a lingering kiss. Before her head rested on his chest, the smile faded and he grew serious again as his mind wandered back to his conversation with Monroe.

"We're not always going to be dealt the winning hand, Laura. Sometimes in this line of work of ours, you have to know when to hold them and when to fold." Unable to help herself, she laughed quietly. "I'm serious, Miss Holt, there are stakes I'm not willing –"

"I'm sorry," she apologized, ruffing his chest hair with her fingers. "What you said… it just reminded me of a song, that's all. ' _You've got to know when to hold them, Know when to fold them, Know when to walk away, Know when to run…"_ she sang softly _,_ drawing a smile to his lips, despite the serious nature of their conversation. "I understand what you're saying," she sobered. "I promise you, if ever the time comes where we need to fold and walk away, I won't hesitate to do just that. There are stakes I'm not willing to pay out either." She tilted her head back and bussed the side of his neck to emphasize the point. "I have a question for you, Mr. Steele…"

"Oh?" he asked, tilting his head sideways to look down at her face.

"Do you," she ran a single finger down his chest, "know when to hold them?" With a chuckle, he turned on his side, and pulled her to him, spooning his body around hers then drawing sheet and blanket up over their bodies.

"I do, indeed, Miss Holt," he assured her, nuzzling his cheek against hers, before tucking her head beneath his chin, and snuggling closer to her. "I do, indeed."


	9. Chapter 8: You'd Go On

Chapter 8: You'd Go On

It hadn't been an easy day, an easy case, by anyone's standards. Phil Lydon and his henchman were behind bars on a whole host of charges, guaranteeing sentences that would keep them in prison until they were doddering old men, at the very least. Among those charges: the murder of Rudy Johnson, a young kid who'd been helping support his mother and two sisters. There would be a funeral to attend in the days ahead, respects to be paid. Laura had another close call, caught by Lydon and his goon in Lydon's office printing out the proof they needed to show Perennial Insurance had a long history of fraudulent activities. Remington had realized, almost too late, that she was still within the office when Lydon and associate had arrived, and once more had found his heart plummeting to his toes as he and Monroe burst through the doors to save her.

True to her nature, once Monroe and Remington had neutralized the threat of the men, when asked what should be done with them Laura had off-handedly remarked:

"You're playing the cop! Arrest them!"

Cool as the proverbial cucumber, despite the fact her life had once more been at risk only minutes before.

He wanted to throttle her.

He wanted to kiss her and never let her out of his arms again.

 _Good God, I love that woman, every damnably frustrating ounce of her._ The thought had traipsed through his mind, leaving him once again cursing his inability to say those three words. But then, when he'd looked at her again, dressed in that hideous hippie outfit she'd donned for her part with a smirk playing on her lips, he could only chuckle and flash her a toothy grin.

Norman Maxwell's career as Financial Advisor had taken a serious blow because of his pal, Phil Lydon. Intellectually, at least, Laura knew she was not responsible for her old suitor being left financially devastated with bleak career prospects but her heart teemed with guilt. Another innocent casualty in their pursuit of the truth, Maxwell's symbolic blood on her hands.

Remington had insisted on making dinner for he, Laura, Mildred and Lester, a celebration, of sorts, for closing the case. But, perhaps that was the wrong word for it… celebration. It was more a nod that they'd somehow all made it through, relatively unscathed physically, even if Laura and he had taken somewhat of a bashing mentally. Lester, who had decided to keep the room at the Downtowner for his final night in LA, had insisted on taking one last shot at getting the VCR and television to work cooperatively with one another after dinner, while Mildred cheered him on and Remington did the dishes. Laura had escaped out to the balcony relatively unnoticed.

She'd put on a good face during the meal, at least for Mildred and Lester. But Remington hadn't missed the occasionally absent gaze, or how her hand would lift to move to brow, and with a good deal of concentration she'd force it back down. He wasn't surprised, therefore, when she didn't help with the dishes, a tradition for them, or when he found her absent from the main rooms of the flat when he'd finished up the chore.

Walking slowly, with hands in pockets, towards the French doors, he paused in the doorway, trying to decide if he should leave her to her own thoughts or go to her as he wished to do. When her shoulders slumped and she leaned against heavily on arms pressed against the balcony walls, sighing deeply, he let his instincts guide him to her. Stepping quietly behind her, he slid an arm around her waist. Her hand stroked down his forearm, until her it lay over his hand, and leaning back into him, she pressed her cheek to his. He rocked her gently in his embrace.

They hadn't been wrong the night before. In choosing not to re-erect their personal barriers, in allowing themselves to be fully open to and vulnerable with each other, there was a new richness, complexity… intimacy… to their relationship that hadn't existed before. It was frightening and exhilarating new territory, but territory that allowed them to honestly extend and accept the comfort that had been offered just now. They both closed their eyes, allowing themselves the briefest of moments to revel in it.

"Thinking about your friend, Maxwell?" he asked quietly, pressing his cheek to her head again and looking out over Hancock park. She crossed her other arm over his, clasping her hands together, as his thumb stroked her stomach.

"I don't know what I'd do if my world suddenly fell apart like that," she admitted. _Ah, Laura, what you did the last time. Pick yourself up and face the world head on_ , _barely missing a beat_ , he thought to himself.

"You'd go on," he said instead, giving her a gentle squeeze, "because that's the only choice any of us ever have." A soft smile played on her lips as she tilted her head back to look at him. _More words of wisdom from Marcos, Xenos?_ she mused. His head bent forward to kiss her then stilled when _Tara's Theme_ drifted through the flat and out onto the balcony.

"We've got picture!" Lester announced.

"And sound!" Mildred called out excitedly.

"They've got picture," she smiled up at him, never moving from his embrace, "And then sound." His eyes never strayed from her lips.

"Frankly, my dear," he susurrated tenderly, as he turned her in his arms to face him, "I don't give a damn."

She lifted her lips to meet his, as his arms tightened around her shoulders pulling her close. A brush of their lips, and his hand pressed below her neck, as they leaned into each other, deepening the kiss when their lips made contact the second time. Her hand whispered up his back, her fingers tangling in the hair at the base of his neck as he sampled her taste then returned for more. Pressing up on her tiptoes, her other hand caressed his upper arm and shoulder, as she opened her mouth willingly at his gentle hint.

"Kids, didn't you hear—" Mildred called to them as she stepped onto the balcony, covering her smile with her hand as she watched them freeze. "Oops…" She feigned an apologetic look, but she wasn't sorry in the least. She loved catching her kids in a clinch.

Laura's eyes blinked twice at the interruption, then remained wide, her lips parted, before she swallowed hard and regained her composure. The kiss had rocked her to her core, and by the look on Remington's face, he knew it. Which he did. It was a look she wore on her face when he got the kiss exactly right from start to finish. He couldn't help but admit, a look like that did a man's heart good, and he vowed to aim to see it more often.

He turned his head to look over his shoulder at Mildred, as Laura peeked over it, neither of them releasing the other.

"We have picture and sound," Mildred repeated the earlier announcement. Remington and she exchanged a frustrated glance.

"We'll be right there, Mildred," she told her, sighing quietly. He watched until Mildred departed then turned his head back to Laura, pulling her into a brief hug, rocking with her again, before bussing her forehead and releasing her.

"Shall we, Miss Holt?" he asked, with an arm extended towards the French doors. "Rhett and Scarlett await."

"Not to mention Mildred and Lester," she grumbled under her breath. Having overheard her, he chuckled silently as her followed behind her.

In his bedroom, Remington plumped up a pillow and stretched out on his side, crossing his legs and resting head in hand propped by an elbow on the bed. Since Mildred and Lester occupied the two chairs in the room, Laura slipped off her heels, and reclined against the pillows on Remington's bed, a respectable distance from him. Remington stood briefly to flick off the bedroom light, casting the room in the light from the big screen TV, then resumed his position.

Laura allowed herself to get lost in the storyline, not even noticing at first when her eyelids grew heavy and closed. She'd memorized the movie long ago, and even with her eyes shut could see each scene as it played out. The last thirty-six hours took their toll, and she drifted off to sleep while Rhett burst into Scarlett's bedroom, yanking a dress from the closet and tossing it at her. Smiling at her sleeping form, Remington rolled to his back, propping his head on folded arms. Ten minutes later, as Rhett announced to Scarlett he was taking Bonnie away with him, he followed behind Laura and fell asleep. Neither woke when a short time later she rolled to her side, her hand reaching for him in her sleep and he opened his arm and drew her near. She snuggled her head against his chest and sank further into her dreams.

"I never much cared for this part—" Lester commented, turning his head towards Remington and Laura, quieting when he saw the sleeping couple. Mildred's eyes followed his when he stopped speaking and she smiled at the sight of the two of them. "I wasn't aware they were a couple," he commented.

"Neither are they most days," Mildred commented drily. That earned a confused look from the garlic farmer.

"Huh?" he questioned.

"This is my third year working for those kids and I have watched them dance around what's between them since the day I walked in those offices." She tilted her head and gave them a thoughtful look. "I keep hoping one day they'll figure out they have belonged to one another all along."

"So they're not…?" he asked, puzzled, because from what he could see they certainly were.

"Only when they forget to sidestep," she sighed, with a wave towards them. "Believe you me, when they finally get together, I'll be shouting it from the rooftops," she assured him, as she stood. "I guess it's time to call it a night. Work tomorrow." Lester stood as well, and leaned over to turn off the television.

"Leave it on," she told him with a wave of her hand. "The closing credits is as good as an alarm clock for the Boss. He'll wake as soon as they start to roll and then he'll see Miss Holt home. Can I drop you at the hotel? Save you some cab fare?"

"That would be mighty nice of you," he accepted as they left the bedroom. The apartment door closed quietly behind them.

If Mildred had bet the house on Remington waking when the opening credits rolled, she would have lost. But, when the VCR turned off and the TV along with it, the sudden silence drew him from his sleep. Prying open tired eyes, he looked around the darkened room in a daze. It took his sleep addled mind several seconds to understand why he and Laura were fully dressed and on top of the covers. _Gone with the Wind. Mildred. Lester. Got it._ He turned his head to look at his alarm clock. Eleven-fifty-six. In four minutes, Cinderella would turn into a pumpkin. His brain had come awake enough to find the thought of Laura in an ice blue gown rushing down a flight of steps for her carriage amusing.

Looking down at her, he was tempted to let her sleep on, then to prevaricate when morning came and claim he'd slept straight through as well. He closed his eyes and settled more firmly beneath her. A half minute hadn't passed before his eyes popped open again at the realization the cost of her trust was too high a price to pay, no matter how much he wanted it.

To that end, he reached out to turn on the bedside lamp, then stroked a hand down her arm before patting her on the hip. Heavy eyelids lifted and her brown eyes rolled for a split second, before she managed to focus groggily on him.

"What's wrong?" she asked, her voice thick with sleep.

"Nothing at all," he assured her. "It's just about midnight." She stared at him, not making the connection. "Thursday night," he prompted. He saw when the meaning registered with her. Slowly she pushed herself up into a sitting position, while nodding her head.

"I'll just splash some water on my face, and be on my—"

"Nonsense," he disagreed with an adamant shake of his head. "You'll undoubtedly nod off on the way home, and I won't be having that. I'll just take you home then come 'round and get you in the morning." He placed a hand on her waist when she began to rise. _Ah, bugger it._ "Or, you can stay." He tried to keep his heart felt desire from being heard in the suggestion, and winced briefly when his words sounded like a plea to his own ears. She stilled next to him.

She knew what she should say: they had an agreement. _Agreeing to stay will establish a precedent,_ her logical side reminded her. _Give in this once, and he'll be at you all the time to continue breaking the rule._ It was possibly a testament to how grueling the last two days had been that her heart trumped her brain for once.

"On one condition." He lifted his brow in question. "You share the bathroom while you shower so I can get ready for bed." He looked at her gravely and bussed her on the cheek.

"Deal." Standing, he retrieved a pair of pajamas from his dresser, handing her his top, then offered her a helping hand up. "You go ahead and get started, I'll go lock up." She nodded then stumbled towards the bathroom.

By the time his shower was finished, she'd already washed her face, brushed her hair and teeth, changed her clothes, had climbed into what he thought of these days as her side of the bed, and returned to her dreams. Turning off the lamp, he rounded the bed, then slipped beneath the covers, scooting over to spoon around her. She woke enough to tangle her fingers with the hand at her waist, and draw it up so their joined hand lay between her breasts. Wriggling closer to him, she sighed and returned to her dreams.

His last thought before he joined her in sleep was the weekend began tomorrow which meant for four straight nights he'd have had the pleasure of sleeping with her warm body against his. He nodded off wondering how he might convince her to make that number of days more permanent.


End file.
